


Shoulder these nights with me

by ManukaHoney



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Hard of Hearing Jughead Jones, I'm Australian and writing 'Sweatpants' physically pained me, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Protective Sweet Pea (Riverdale), Set during s 2 when FP is still in prison, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManukaHoney/pseuds/ManukaHoney
Summary: When he was in fourth grade, Jughead sliced his forearm open on a piece of razor wire jutting out of a fence he’d been trying to climb with Archie. It had taken thirty-two sutures to secure the torn skin back together, and on Monday, every kid in his class had wanted to see the wound. He’d peeled back layers of bandage to show them the stitches threaded through soft tissue, holding the gash closed.Seven years later, everyone still clamours to see his scars.OrJughead is scared of the dark.
Relationships: Archie Andrews & Jughead Jones, FP Jones II & Jughead Jones, Jughead Jones & Sweet Pea, Jughead Jones/Sweet Pea
Comments: 22
Kudos: 198





	Shoulder these nights with me

Jughead’s family had owned a single torch growing up, and though it was initially bought for his parents to use during the frequent blackouts the south side was known for experiencing, it was an unspoken agreement that the torch was his, whenever he needed it to be.

No one thought his aversion to the dark was abnormal, because a nine-year-old, hearing-impaired kid being weary of not being able to see as well as hear is as understandable as it gets, so it was always just accepted as a part of who he was.

If anything, he felt bad for Jellybean having to hear what he didn't. When the trailer became loud and chaotic, and his parents were screaming at each other so loud that they’d had police knock on the door, Jughead didn’t have to hear it. He would take his hearing aid off, because it made his ear sore after a while, and he didn’t know why anyone would want to listen to the bad things going on around them if they didn’t have to. 

Jellybean didn’t have the ability to turn off the chaos, so when things got bad, sometimes he would leave the hearing aid fitted in his ear and tell her stories, hoping that the solidarity of knowing Jughead was listening to it with her would act as a small comfort. 

Things fell apart slowly and consistently.

Jughead spent three months in Leopold and Loeb when he was ten years old and when he finally left, he slept with the lights on for nearly six months.

A dimly lit bedroom with several LED candles illuminating the dark room suddenly wasn’t enough anymore. He remembered FP and Fred picking him up; His mom was known to disappear for weeks at a time, showing up in the cabin at sporadic moments and greeting her kids like she’d been out at the shop to buy milk. They had taken him to Pops and asked him lots of questions as he shovelled down onion rings, too hungry to notice the fear in their expressions.

He didn’t want to talk about it. He shook his head when they asked him things he didn’t want to think about, elated and high on relief which, at the time, he’d thought was normal.

FP knew even back then that trying to get him to open up was a battle they wouldn’t win, and he’d settled for watching his kid suck chocolate milkshake through two straws, wearing clothes that weren’t prison issued sweaters for the first time in so long. Jughead remembers Fred saying _‘I bet it’s good to leave that place behind you,’_ as they drove through the prison gates, and even back then he knew that he was carrying some of the prison out with him.

Years later, he wonders about that moment; How things would have happened if he had spoken up from the backseat of the car, or answered questions a little more honestly in the diner.

When they finally made it back to the trailer in the early evening, his mom gone and his sister apparently with her visiting his grandparents, FP crouched down to look him in the eye and told him he was a _resilient kid, Jug._

Eight hours later, Jughead woke up screaming in his well-lit bedroom, his hearing aid secured in his ear and his dad grabbing at his hands, a look of grief on his face.

Jughead pulled away after that.

Somewhere between his dad drinking himself unconscious and his mom taking his little sister to a new home that didn’t include him and Fred Andrews giving him progressively more concerned gazes as the years went on, he began to understand what had happened to him, and he pushed it down deep.

………………………………

The power outage has been planned for _weeks_ in advance.

Everyone in Riverdale was told about the routine maintenance job that the electricity company had booked for that night, and everyone had been assured that it wasn’t going to affect anyone during regular hours.

He’d been bracing himself for it, glancing away whenever he caught Archie looking worriedly at him from across the classroom they shared.

A year ago, they wouldn’t have talked about it, but for a different reason.

A year ago, it would have just been a given that Jughead would go home with Archie on days like these, or that Archie would follow him home. They would download movies onto his laptop that took up far too much download space and play them through the night, Archie staying in casual but constant physical contact with him when the lights flickered off and the background hum of electrical appliances cut off, signifying the start of a long, hard night.

Things are different now; Things had been different since that summer that jammed the initial wedge between them, but he’d joined the serpents and whatever tentative steps they had taken toward rebuilding their former closeness had taken another hit. He doesn’t blame Archie for resenting the fact that his childhood best friend joined a gang and started carrying a switchblade around in his pocket seemingly out of the blue.

Archie has never been jumped on his way home from school, or watched his dad pass out drunk on the kitchen floor. When Archie found him in the midst of his serpent trials and broke up with him on behalf of Betty, citing Jughead having ‘ _Crossed over to the dark side,’_ for explanation, a cynical part of himself had laughed. 

Everyone acted shocked when he joined the serpents, as if the son of serpent leader FP Jones, a current foster kid who was once the youngest inmate at Leopold and Loeb, was ever expected to do anything else.

He knows, without doubt that Archie would let him in if he showed up at his door now.

Hell, even if Archie was to shut the door in his face, there was no way Fred would leave him out there, scared of the dark or not.

But he wasn’t going to sink that low.

The cabin is pitch-black; If he holds a hand in front of his face and waves it around, he can’t see it, so he tries anyway, just to really embed himself in the helplessness of the situation.

The door is locked. There’s no one else in the trailer. 

Still, it’s almost half past eleven, and his heart is beating too quickly and it has been for the better half of an hour and _he just wants to close his eyes and fall asleep so he can stop being scared._

It’s pathetic and embarrassing and his battery powered torch is clutched in a death grip in his right hand.

It’s a hard metal that could deliver a heavy blow to anyone hidden in the darkness, and he tries to push the thought out of his head as quickly as it enters, but his breath still catches.

His phone pings next to him, the vibration rumbling across the wooden dresser it rests upon.

An irrational part of him wishes for a second that it was his dad, even though his dad is in prison and staring down a lengthy stretch of time that he doesn’t want to think about at any point in time, let alone now.

A slightly shaky hand fumbles around for it, and he bites his lip when sees that it’s from Archie.

It’s short, to the point.

_Are you okay man?_

Briefly, he wishes he had just swallowed his pride and gone home with Archie.

If that was all there was to it, he probably would have, but it wasn’t and he can’t think about that yet.

He types back an equally short response, but after it’s sent he sees the choppy spelling, a product of unsteady fingers on keys.

_Fuck._

_He’s sixteen years old, and his phone is ringing in the middle of the night because he can’t type a basic response during a black-out._

He answers it on speaker, and doesn’t say anything at first, not trusting his voice to sound casual enough to pass as okay.

Archie breathes for a few seconds, Jughead hears it through the phone and he _hates_ that they’re like this now.

When he finally does speak, it’s quiet and serious, not nearly as awkward as it could have been.

‘Are you okay, Jug?’

_Not even a little bit._

He forces a tone that isn't laced with anxiety.

‘I’m fine, Arch. Exposure therapy at its best.’

He can’t hear Archie’s sigh- his hearing aids aren’t perfect, and he still can’t hear minute noises through a phone line, but he’s pretty sure it’s there.

‘My dad can come get you if you-‘

‘I’m okay. I promise.’

He’s not, but he tacks on the last bit just in case Fred is listening to the conversation on the other end.

It’s a strained, tight voice that makes the promise, even to his own ears, but it doesn’t waver, which is better than he expects.

A deep breath in and out, and he carries on.

‘Go to sleep, Arch. It’s not as bad as it used to be. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

He hands up the phone, and for some reason, he feels emptier than before.

It’s nearly another half an hour of tossing and turning, feeling his hearing aid dig painfully in whenever he shifts onto his right side because there’s no way he’s taking it off tonight, when he cracks.

It feels like a blanket overwhelming him and he knows it’s ridiculous, but closing his eyes brings irrational thoughts of footsteps padding quietly around the trailer and memories he doesn’t want to think about to the front of his mind.

It’s wrapping around his chest, squeezing at his throat and he can’t start panicking, because if there _was_ anyone in the trailer, they would definitely hear him, so he grabs at a hoodie on the top of his covers and shoves the soft material against his mouth and nose, determined to keep each breath as quiet as possible.

Bracing himself as if for a fight, he slips the hoodie on and makes a move that he already knows he’ll regret in the morning.

Phone shoved into his pocket, torch gripped in his right hand and serpent jacket slung over his shoulders at the last second, probably looking out of place in conjunction with the sweatpants and hoodie, and he’s walking out of the trailer. His skin prickles and the hairs on his forearms do the same, every physiological signal from his body urging him to move quicker if he doesn’t want to feel hands grabbing at him.

The trailer park is second nature for his legs to navigate, and with the glow of torchlight focussed on the ground ahead of each step, he makes it to the trailer almost exactly adjacent to his own without tripping over unsteady feet.

His open hand hammers against the door almost as violently as his own heartbeat hammers against his chest.

It’s as dark outside as it is in his bedroom, each streetlight as useless as the others and his hearing is _almost_ as good as anyone else's with the device in is ear, but if there are footsteps that are being kept deliberately quiet near him, he probably won’t pick them up. In the south side, that’s a terrifying thought.

The door is tugged open just wide enough for the serpent inside to see him, and when Sweet Pea looks at him in the red light of his own, less blinding torch, he has to bite down hard on his lip to stop any sound from escaping his throat.

His heart is beating so hard it’s painful, his ear stinging from turning harshly onto the device in his ear over and over again.

If Sweet Pea thought he was pathetic before, it’s _nothing_ on what he’s probably thinking now, watching him shaking on his doorstep in the middle of the night because of a blackout.

The embarrassment is still outweighed by the fear, and no matter how impatient or irritable the serpent in front of him might be, there’s a nagging part of him that wants to cling to the muscled frame of Sweet Pea the same way he had done to Archie so many times.

Sweet Pea looks simultaneously hazy and alarmed.

‘Jones? What the fuck are you-‘

The door opens wider and he’s being pulled inside, almost manhandled until he's leaning against the now closed wooden frame. 

Red light is shining in his face, a rough hand coming up to manoeuvre his jaw until the boy in front of him is apparently satisfied that he’s not bleeding from his head, and without thinking, he grabs out for the arm by Sweet Pea’s side the way he’s done to Archie so many times before. His fingers curl around a bicep, more muscular than Archie’s, and he’s squeezing tightly, to ground himself and stop any trembling in his fingers against the skin. 

‘Jughead, what happened?’

His first name sounds strange coming from Sweet Pea’s mouth, and there’s urgency in the tone. 

He doesn’t know how to say it; Its always been something that the people in his life just _knew._

His breath hitches erratically as he talks, difficult to steady when he’s not concentrating on it.

_‘I’m not okay with the dark_ ,’ He grits out, before the rest just comes tumbling.

_‘_ It’s dark and it’s _pathetic_ and I’m not supposed to sleep with my hearing aid in but then I can’t see or hear it and it’s worse since-‘

He cuts himself off quickly at that, and there’s a second where he’s horrifyingly conscious of the red light shining against his face because at some point he must have started crying; There are definitely tears making their way down his face.

‘Okay, wait, you’re scared of the dark, Jones?’

To his surprise, Sweet Pea doesn’t make any move to pull his arm away, and instead moves closer.

An arm slings over the back of his shoulders and he’s pulled in toward the warm body in front of him. It’s not that he’s usually a particularly physical person, but when everything around him is a potential threat that he can’t see, something under his skin just wants to burrow as closely into someone he trusts as he can.

He leans in, resting his forehead against bare collarbone.

‘ _It’s too similar.’_

The only indication Sweet Pea’s heard him is the hand running up and down his upper body in a soothing way that he wouldn’t have expected from a person who had once knocked him to the ground with a brass knuckle-clad fist.

He’s being moved, two hands on his shoulders marching him further into the trailer and peeling off his serpent jacket. He only has enough time to kick off the shoes jammed hastily onto his feet before he’s being pulled onto a warm mattress by strong arms that wrap around his torso and pull him back against Sweet Pea’s body.

It’s calming- he’s still wound up and exhausted, but the underpinning terror of potential danger was left behind somewhere.

’Feel safer with contact?’

It’s pragmatic and simple, no inflection or taunting that he can hear in the question.

‘Yeah. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Fangs has woken me up at worse hours to tell me he’s craving Taco Bell.’

Despite the situation, Jughead laughs for a second.

‘Fuck, Jones, I’m sorry.’ Sweet Pea’s voice sounds genuinely frustrated at himself. ’Should have checked you were going to be okay or something. FP told me about your hearing thing. Makes sense you don’t like not being able to see anything.’

Jughead yawns instead of responding, and Sweet Pea moves to lie down, leaving the decision about how close he wants to be up to him.

Sweet Pea is one of the rare people who willingly sleeps on his back, so Jughead curls around his body and places a hand over the left side of Sweet Pea’s chest, feeling the steady beat under his palm.

There’s silence for a while, and he’s still fighting down sporadic bursts of panic when the dark feels overwhelming around him. At one point, his breath comes out in an exhale so shaky that even he’s surprised, and Sweet Pea cards a hard through his hair until he can uncoil some of the tension in his body.

So many have called him _resilient._

His dad, Fred Andrews, several teachers and even Archie, that one time.

He hates the word.

It feels like a sentence being handed out by a judge, an expectation that he has to live up to, and sometimes he can’t rise to the challenge.

There are a lot of people who have tried to get him to talk about what happened to make him so scared.

When he was in fourth grade, Jughead sliced his forearm open on a piece of razor wire jutting out of a fence he’d been trying to climb with Archie _._ It had taken thirty-two sutures to secure the torn skin back together, and on Monday, every kid in his class had wanted to see the wound. He’d peeled back layers of bandage to show them the stitches threaded through soft tissue, holding the gash closed.

Seven years later, and everyone still clamours to see his scars. 

Sweet Pea isn’t asking.

Jughead knocked on his door in the middle of the night and grabbed onto him and he’s still not pushing.

It makes him want to talk about the things he doesn’t talk about.

‘I was in Juvie when I was ten.’

‘I know.’

’They put me in a cell with a sixteen year old sex offender.’

There’s a sharp inhale of breath, and a hand carding through his hair again, another hand pressing him closer to Sweet Pea.

‘Is the fucker still in Riverdale?’

He’s already made the jump, not that it was a tough one to make.

‘Wasn’t from here anyway,’

Technically, this is as much as his dad knows, and his dad knows more than anyone.

He breathes deep.

‘He stole my hearing aid when I took it out to sleep. Couldn’t afford another one. Made me pay him to get it back.’

He doesn’t need to tell Sweet Pea what the boy made him do. 

Sweet Pea’s been in juvie.

It’s unnaturally quiet, and usually the absence of sound agitates him in the dark, but it’s fitting now.

’I couldn’t see or hear anything. Just felt him move my hands where he wanted them. I’d never even jerked _myself_ off before.’

Jesus.

He didn’t imagine he’d ever tell someone that much of it.

He doesn’t talk about what happened that night in the foster home that he’s supposed to be living in; That’s still too fresh to poke at.

Sweet Pea finally speaks, low and soft and determined all at the same time.

‘You didn’t deserve that Jug. No one does.’

He nods, but doesn’t speak. 

‘If you ever need to talk, or crash with someone so you feel safe, I’m here. I mean that. Fangs does sometimes.’

Jughead goes to sleep with an arm wrapped around his back, fingers combing through his hair and a dulled sense of fear that’s present, but so much more manageable than it had been in the hours earlier. 

Sweet Pea feels like safety and shared experiences underneath him; A familiarity that he couldn’t reach with Archie or Betty anymore.

He’s never been more thankful for the south side than in that moment of solidarity with Sweet Pea holding him through the night.

The words he once recited in a pledge fall into place and he recites them like a prayer in his head.

_No serpent stands alone._

**Author's Note:**

> I have, once again, horrifically disrupted my sleep pattern to write about fictional characters.  
> This was inspired by Yukichouji for writing literally all my favourite Jugpea fics. If you're reading this: You are a gift to the Earth and AO3 <3.  
> I don't even know if torch is an American word or if they only say flashlight there?  
> I mentioned Jug putting thongs on to walk across the trailer park in the first draft before remembering thongs are underwear in America and the only other word I know for thongs is jandals but I think that's just kiwi?
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr or here, leave random hc's about our serpent boys in the comments, literally just yell at me lmao I'm stuck in quarantine and I'm desperate for human contact.  
> I have a loosely planned second chapter for this I might add if anyone enjoys this one, it's focussing more on Jughead and FP and Jug opening up to his dad a bit, so please let me know if you're keen for that, or if you're not, it's all good either way. =)


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